Sunday, February 10, 2013

Last weekend I participated in an interesting activity on a poetry group of Facebook. The entire weekend was dedicated to Ghalib, where members shared and discussed Ghalib’s poetry. One particular activity attracted me the most. It was a game where we had to respond to Ghalib’s verses in our own original verses. Sort of a conversation with Ghalib. One rule, which was not mandatory, but what made it personally most interesting was that if we chose to respond in Urdu, we had to follow the same zameen/tarah (pattern of rhyme, refrain and meter) as Ghalib’s original couplet. That made it more challenging and worthwhile.

So here goes my conversation with my favourite poet.

DISCLAIMER: The scenario painted below is simply for fun. Any shades of blasphemy or irreverence are purely coincidental.

My happiness knew no bound when Mirza Asadullah Khan invited me for an intimate meeting at his place a few days back. What more can a student ask for than a cozy tete-a-tete with his guru and mentor? A little nervous, a bit cautious, but extremely excited, I accepted his invitation and went over to his place.

After a formal exchange of pleasantries and some casual chit-chat, Ghalib decides to get down to some serious business. Maybe with the intention of testing his student’s mettle, or simply for some entertainment, he commands me to participate in a game of bait-baazi, where I have to respond to his verses in the same pattern. How could I not accept his command?

Chacha Ghalib starts off with what is one of his best known and oft-quoted verses. Maybe he wants to start on a relatively familiar territory to make me comfortable.

(Desires in thousands – each so strong it takes my breath anewAnd many longings were fulfilled – many, but even so, too fee- Translation by Ralph Russell)

I am not perturbed. With the intention of questioning the philosophy of this verse, or rather pointing out an alternate philosophy, I compose a qat’aa (verse set). In order to impress him, I compose the second verse of this verse-set in a very Arabic/Persian influenced language.

Agreed that desires are like a billowing sea where one gets drowned in the whirlpool of desires, never to come out. But how real are these desires? One way to look at it is that the sea of desires is quiet and calm in reality. The thoughts of a storm are possibly just a creation of one’s imagination. Why not let your mind rest? The more you think about it or indulge in active pursuit of your desires, the more it will keep sucking you like a whirlpool and there can be no getting out. Be satisfied with what you have and your desires will be limited and not in thousands (हज़ारों ख्वाहिशें) so as to take away your breath (दम निकले)!

I can’t make out whether Ghalib is impressed or disappointed with my effort. Stoically, he moves on to another verse from the same ghazal – a verse that is in a completely different mood from the first one. A witty verse.

I see through your game Mr. Asad. By volunteering to write a letter to her on my behalf, you want to be privy to my feelings for her? Nice try, but if she is mine, and the thoughts are mine, why shouldn’t I write the letters myself? There’s enough ink and power in my pen. Thanks, but no thanks, I don’t need your pen.

But Ghalib knows how to corner me. Knowing very well that writing verses about the beloved is not my strong point, he throws this one at me – another witty verse where he taunts the beloved.

(It will shatter the myth of the height of your stature, O! Cruel oneIf only the curls of your dangling forelock would unfurl- Translation by Dr. Sarfaraz Niazi)

I’m clearly cornered. Not wanting to give up so easily, I write a verse, where I extol the beauty of the beloved’s hair by emphasizing on the problems her curls pose to someone who is enamoured by their very existence.

What can one say about the curly hair of the beloved? There are many more secrets hidden in there. If she lets them be, one keeps wondering what is hidden there and that leads to an uneasy feeling. But if she releases them, disentangles them, so many secrets will come rolling down that one would be totally overwhelmed.

So what does Ghalib do now? He bowls a googly. A completely different thought which can be interpreted in many ways depending on the tone you assign to it.

(Those from whom I had expected appreciation of my woundsThey turned out to be me more wounded than me by the sword of tyranny- Translation by Dr. Sarfaraz Niazi)

The way I read Ghalib’s verse, I am amazed at his naiveté. Or you could say, I conveniently choose to read it as his naiveté, and almost taking on the façade of an advisor, I choose to unravel the reality before him.

Sir, how can you be so naïve? You are totally wrong in believing that ‘they’ too are wounded by the sword of tyranny. It is just their way of garnering sympathy. You know what? They have themselves created those wounds on their bodies and are cunningly displaying them to get your sympathy. For heaven’s sake, return to reality and realize that it is just a carefully rehearsed act! That they’re oppressed and wounded by the ‘tyrant’ is totally wrong. Get rid of this wrong belief!

Now some arrogance creeps into my mind. I start to feel that I have defeated the master at his own game. I eagerly wait for him to accept defeat by quoting this verse:

(We have long been hearing about Adam’s expulsion from Paradise butWith greater disgrace, however, we came out of your alley- Translation by Dr. Sarfaraz Niazi)

But Masters are masters for a reason. They know exactly how to puncture the inflated egos of people. So, to show me my place, he changes the rules of the game. Now the conversation has to move to a different ground (zameen). A different rhyme, a different refrain, and a different meter.He picks up a meter I am not very comfortable with. Now comes the real challenge…

And this time he picks up another of his very well known ghazals. Ghalib says, in his own deceptively simple words.

(It is, after all a heart, not a stone or brick, that would not fill with sorrowWe will cry a thousand times for why should anyone tease us- Translation by Dr. Sarfaraz Niazi)

Now I have been surreptitiously led into a maze where I can have no hope of escaping from. I struggle for some time and then come up with a verse, again donning the cloak of an advisor, but this time probably to hide my own incompetence.

Mr. Ghalib, don’t blame your lack of self-control and self-confidence on the sensitive nature of your heart or someone trying to tease you. You cry because you have no control over your feelings. What else can you expect but to drown in the ocean of your own tears? You have no confidence in yourself, and you hold others entirely responsible for this? How convenient!

By this time I know that it’s going to get tougher. The Master can throw countless verses at me for which I would have no response. So it was best for me to politely excuse myself from the conversation.

Whether the mentor was impressed by the students effort thus far, or angry and disappointed by his chickening out, I would never know. But this unique experience of conversing with him, has made me feel much more confident of myself about composing verses in situations where there is no luxury of available time. For that alone, I will always cherish this experience.

Thursday, February 07, 2013

This post first appeared on Swara Sutra, a music group on Facebook, for a theme about water and related terms in songs.

The Poet and the painter casting shadows on the wateras the sun plays on the infantry returning from the sea.The do-er and the thinker: no allowance for the otheras the failing light illuminates the mercenary's creed.

The home fire burning- the kettle almost boilingbut the master of the house is far away.The horses stamping their warm breath cloudingin the sharp and frosty morning of the day.And the poet lifts his pen while the soldier sheaths his sword.

And the youngest of the family is moving with authority.Building castles by the sea,he dares the tardy tide to wash them all aside.

The cattle quietly grazing at the grass down by the riverwhere the swelling mountain water moves onward to the sea:the builder of the castles renews the age-old purposeand contemplates the milking girl whose offer is his need.The young men of the household haveall gone into service andare not to be expected for a year.The innocent young master - thoughts moving ever fasterhas formed the plan to change the man he seems.And the poet sheaths his pen while the soldier lifts his sword.

And the oldest of the family is moving with authority.Coming from across the sea,he challenges the son who puts him to the run.

What do you do whenthe old man's gone -- do you want to be him? Andyour real self sings the song.Do you want to free him?No one to help you get up steamand the whirlpool turns you `way off-beam.

If I were to tell you that these lines are taken from a really long epic poem written by an eight year old, would you believe it? Well, you don’t need to as it isn’t true. But when Jethro Tull’s epic album Thick as a Brick, the album cover was designed as a newspaper carrying a story of how an eight year old, dubbed “Little Milton”, won a poetry contest for this poem and the decision was reversed by the judges after a series of protests! “Judges Disqualify Little Milton in Last Minute Rumpus”, the “headlines” said.

What is unique about this album is the fact that the entire album is just one really long sung running close to 45 minutes. It has the unmistakable Jethro Tull stamp with a distinctive flute pieces spread across the entire album as the leitmotif.